Sherlock Sexting
by wendymarlowe
Summary: It's been months since John's last got off properly (i.e. not just by himself), and he's more than a little frustrated. Sherlock is out of town on a case, but deduces the reason for John's mood and bluntly offers to help via text. Smutty little lemon with some humor (it's Sherlock, after all!) and delightfully explicit without actually being all that naughty, anatomically speaking.


Note: This may shock some of you, but I don't actually text. I technically have a cell phone, but I almost never use it. So if you find it a bit unbelievable that John and Sherlock sign off with their initials (and bother with proper spelling and punctuation) for every single text, please allow me to hand-wave that issue away :-)

* * *

John glanced at the clock in the corner of his laptop screen. The time rolled over to 8:00. Officially one hundred days, to the hour, since he had gotten off properly. "Properly," in this case, meaning "something less pathetic than with his own hand." He always had that option, although for some reason he hadn't felt as obliged to resort to it recently - too many cases, too much time at the surgery, no time left to mope about feeling sorry for himself. But now Sherlock was in _Manchester_, of all places, and John didn't even have someone to yell at.

_Bored._

_Shit, I'm starting to sound like him._

He slammed the laptop closed and rolled his head back along the top cushions of his armchair. He could still go out tonight, hope to pick someone up, maybe even bring her back to the flat now that Sherlock wasn't there to light pig entrails on fire in the middle of the kitchen and completely ruin the mood. John considered the thought for a few minutes, but dismissed it. God, he was too far gone to even bother finding someone to get off _with_ - that had to be a new low. Maybe he still had some woman's number in his phone?

John dug his phone out of his pocket and paged through the contact list. One of these days he'd actually sort through and categorize everything - "I have no idea who this number is," "Got her number once but never called," "Went out once or twice but never shagged," "Shagged a bit," and "Dated HATES ME DO NOT CALL AGAIN." Would be nice to find someone in the "shagged a bit" category who wouldn't mind shagging a bit more.

The "ding" of an incoming text interrupted him. John backed out of the contacts menu, hoping it was miraculously some female acquaintance flirting with him but knowing it was probably just Sherlock. It was the latter.

_**BORED. -SH**_

John snorted. _You have no idea._

_Ditto. -JW_

_**Bored and NOT IN LONDON. -SH**_

_Case solved that quickly? -JW_

_**Nanny did it. Waste of travel time. Can't get back until tomorrow. -SH**_

_Try sleeping - all the cool kids do it. - JW_

_**Try masturbating - ditto. - SH**_

John dropped the phone and stared at it. Sherlock couldn't - there's no way he could -

_**Obvious - 100 days since your last date with that ginger cellist. You get maudlin for anniversaries. -SH**_

_Bit not good, Sherlock. -JW_

He bit his lip, then added a second message:

_Besides, what makes you think I haven't tried that? -JW_

He immediately regretted sending it, but it was too late. Sherlock, with his complete lack of understanding for boundaries, would no doubt answer with some cringe-worthy deduction. The phone dinged again.

_**You're bored with that too. Frequency has decreased in the last month. -SH**_

_**Need me to talk you through it? -SH**_

John blinked. Then read Sherlock's message again. Surely he wasn't offering to -

_If you deduced my frequency, then surely you've deduced that I already know how. -JW_

He sat frozen until Sherlock's return text appeared.

_**I can make it better. Go to your bed and get comfortable. -SH**_

Right. Now was the time to end this. Now was the time to turn his phone off, turn on the telly, and fall asleep in his armchair feeling sorry for himself. Now was the time to tell Sherlock off for being such a fucking prat and a bloody plonker besides. John did neither. Instead he sat and stared at his phone for a very long time, then slowly climbed the stairs and sat on his bed.

_**Are you there yet? -SH**_

John swallowed hard and typed out a reply.

_Yes. -JW_

God, he shouldn't be doing this. Living with Sherlock was already awkward enough. Sherlock had the annoying habit of 'deducing' all sorts of things John didn't particularly want to share, like when he had an Afghanistan flashback or when he wasn't actually as angry as he wanted to be when he discovered Sherlock had ruined yet another microwave, and then acting as if John had told him those things aloud and given him permission to allude to them when in public. There was no telling what Sherlock would do after tonight. Any actual conversation about it would have to wait until Sherlock got back to London tomorrow, but -

_**Lie down flat on your back under the covers. Clothes off. -SH**_

_Crap._ John kicked off his shoes and socks and pulled the blanket over himself, then shed the rest of his clothes. Not that having the blanket over him made a difference, with Sherlock in another city, but it felt less . . . something.

_Are you sure about this? -JW_

_**I'm not the one dithering. Hand on your chest - massage your pectorals and abdomen. -SH**_

That . . . wasn't so bad, honestly. John brought his right hand up to drift across his chest. It felt . . . nice. He kept the phone up near his pillow with his left hand.

_**Right nipple. Pinch, twist, tease. Only the right side. -SH**_

John frowned at the phone, but he did bring his hand up to his nipple and roll it a bit between his thumb and forefinger. It wasn't something he usually did - just plain wanking was a lot more direct - but it was definitely a move in the right direction. Made him feel lopsided, though.

_Why only the right? -JW_

_**It will keep you more on edge if you're asymmetrically aroused. -SH**_

_**Hand on your stomach, now. Small circles. Only the back of your hand brushing your cock & only incidentally. -SH**_

John wanted to ask "why" again, but he got the feeling he'd be asking after every text if he let it come to that. He skimmed his hand down and palpated his stomach, massaging tiny circles with his palm. The back of his hand did graze the underside of his cock, and the sensation was nowhere near enough. He was very definitely hard, now, but his twitching erection kept just tapping the backs of his fingers. It would be so easy to flip his hand over, palm himself with a good grip -

_**Cheating already? -SH**_

John groaned. _Fuck._

_No, just . . . thinking about it. -JW_

_**Don't you trust me? -SH**_

_Why should I? -JW_

_**Because I'm going to wind you so tight you'll come seeing stars. -SH**_

He groaned louder. At least Sherlock couldn't hear him.

_**Hand down to trace over your balls. Fingertips only. No touching your cock. -SH**_

John hastened to comply. In any other circumstances he would have said it tickled, but he was so bloody turned on that the tickling sensation didn't register as more than a passing observation. The skin there was so sensitive, all it took was lightly tracing his fingertip over the hairs - not even touching his skin - and it was too much and not enough both at the same time.

_When? -JW_

_**When I tell you to, and not a moment before. Keep going, very light. -SH**_

_**Feel free to moan. -SH**_

John grinned at his phone, despite the tension ratcheting up in his groin.

_Mmmmm. Ooooh. Ungh. Aaaaah. -JW_

_**Wanker. -SH**_

_I would be if you'd let me. -JW_

He could absolutely picture Sherlock's face while reading that - probably one of those annoying know-it-all smirks. The idea didn't bother him as much as Sherlock's smirks usually did.

_**Right, then, two fingers only. Have at it. Don't come yet. -SH**_

Yeah, like he could come from just two fingers. John ran his fingertips up the length of his cock, then teased at the tip for a bit. The anticipation was killing him, the evidence already leaking out and lubricating everything. It had been _ages_ - the hundred days and then some - since he last tried drawing his orgasm out. Usually he focused on getting his date off once or twice as quickly as possible, and by the time they got to that point he was worked up enough to come without much fuss.

_**Stick your two fingers in your mouth, get them nice and wet, and see if that helps. -SH**_

He did, tasting himself on his fingertips. Salty and musky and actually a bit like he remembered the cellist tasting, now that he thought about it. Not that he hadn't ever tasted himself before - wasn't that a prerequisite of being a hormone-addled teenage boy? - but back then he had nothing to compare it to. He brought his hand back down and _oh fuck yes_ the extra lubrication brought everything to a new level. Even the little bit of lubrication from his own saliva. He scissored his fingers into a V and tried thrusting against them, just to see, but it wasn't near enough stimulation.

_It helps. Just not enough. -JW_

_**Not supposed to. Sociopath, John, you should know that. I'm being a tease. -SH**_

"A tease?" John said aloud. Before today, he would have highly doubted Sherlock even knew what that meant, at least in a sexual context. Then again, before today he would have never pegged Sherlock as one for sexting. (God, that made him feel like such a teenager, and not in a good way. John knew he was definitively too old for something called "sexting.")

_**Is it working? -SH**_

_God yes. Want more. -JW_

_**Lick your fingertip and get your right nipple nice and wet. Blow on it. -SH**_

That sounded like a step backwards - seemed like _more_ touching his cock would have been the better suggestion - but John brought his finger back to his mouth. Got a good gob of spit on his fingertip and daubed it on his nipple. Bent his head down at the awkward angle and -

_Oooooh._ That was good. He blew again, the pointed breeze making his nipple pebble dramatically and sending a direct hit to his cock. God, he could feel it for ages even after his long breath gave out, evaporation continuing to cool his skin for a full minute afterward. He waited for another text from Sherlock, but Sherlock was taking too long -

_**Good? -SH**_

_You knew it would be, you git. -JW_

_**On a scale of 1 to 10, where are you now? -SH**_

_On a scale of 1 to horny, I'm just about ready to turn off my phone and get down to it. -JW_

_**But then I'd have gotten naked for nothing. -SH**_

John stared at his phone, daring the letters to rearrange themselves into something more understandable. Sherlock was . . . naked. And texting _(sexting)_ him. While in bed, presumably. At least -

_Please tell me you're at your hotel room and not in a pub loo or something. -JW_

The reply was immediate.

_**I'm a control freak, John, not an exhibitionist. I'm in my hotel room. -SH**_

_**Splayed out naked on my bed. White coverlet. I'm fondling myself while texting you. -SH**_

Oh God, John did _not_ need to know that. Didn't need the mental image of Sherlock nude, palming his own cock, thinking about John doing the same.

_Ding_. Incoming photo. John nearly dropped the phone in his haste to open it.

To his surprise (and, if he were being honest with himself, disappointment), it wasn't a nude photo of Sherlock. Or rather it was, but just of Sherlock's hand lying against his bare chest. He had no chest hair to speak of, and those obscenely long fingers were covering his nipple, and it was the sexiest thing John had seen in a long time all the same.

_Fuck. -JW_

_**Your turn. -SH**_

John turned up the bedside lamp, hoping it would be enough light for a natural-looking picture. There was no way he could do the exact same pose Sherlock had used - his scar tissue ran from his left bicep all the way down to the middle of his pectoral. Although maybe if he twisted his body a bit, he could get his right side . . .

The photo turned out a bit blurry, but it was recognizably his own hand on his own chest and it would have to do. John sent it, then immediately thought to clarify.

_You WILL be deleting this immediately, won't you? -JW_

_I don't mean that as a question. -JW_

_**Not immediately, but I'm not sharing. Another. -SH**_

The second picture was even more artistic - the pale curve of Sherlock's hip against a plain white duvet. It was deliberately off-center, the edge of the photo cropping just before it would show anything of substance. The resolution on John's phone wasn't enough to see much detail, whether there was a dusting of hair over the very top part of Sherlock's thigh, but John had bandaged Sherlock up enough times (including his legs, albeit usually more toward his calves) that he knew exactly what that skin would feel like. He immediately lined up his own photo and sent it - more golden, both his skin and the yellowish ambient light, but carefully cropped in exactly the same place.

_Back to touching now? - JW_

_**God yes. Two fingers, balls and cock and stomach. And hip. Keep them moving. -SH**_

John traced a long line from one hip to the other, across his stomach, letting his cock trail over the back of his hand as he did so. Then back toward the midline, dragging gently across his balls and up along his cock to the slit at the tip, probing gently before reversing direction and going back down. John realized his hips were starting to twitch of their own accord.

_So hard right now. If you were here would you kiss it and make it better? -JW_

He immediately wished he had a "recall" button for text messages. A long-distance shared wank was one thing, but John knew he had probably just crossed a line somewhere. Well, the line was way back when he was in the armchair downstairs and staring blankly at his phone, but still. There had, at some point, been a line. And he was very definitely on the wrong side of it.

_Ding._

John opened the photo. And did actually drop his phone this time. A close-up of Sherlock's mouth, lips slightly parted as if inviting him to taste. Or to present some other part of his anatomy for inspection. There was one particular part of him which was very, very eager to volunteer.

_**Spit in your palm for lubrication, then palm your cock and pump SLOWLY. -SH**_

_I do have actual lube, you know. - JW_

_**But I don't, so we'll both do without. -SH**_

Christ, Sherlock was mimicking him. Mirroring his movements, from clear across the bloody country. John's neck muscles gave out for a moment and he had to let his head fall back against his pillow. He got his palm as wet as he could and slowly closed it around himself and _bloody motherfucking fuck_ it was way more amazing than it had any right to be.

_Ding._

This one was shot from closer range, Sherlock clearly holding the camera only a foot or so from his body. It would have been a full-on shot of his (nicely-proportioned, John thought) cock, if only his hand hadn't been wrapped around the tip, obscuring the top few inches. Even with the poor resolution of the cameraphone, John could see it was already glistening a bit and absolutely, gloriously hard. A second photo came in a moment later, finishing the picture - Sherlock's hand was curled around the base this time, exposing most of the rest of his length to the camera. John blinked a few times and stared.

It wasn't like he had never pictured Sherlock naked. Never _tried_ to picture him naked, sure, that was common courtesy for flatmates (although now he was beginning to wonder whether Sherlock had extended him the same courtesy, or even knew it existed). But thoughts come the way thoughts do, and John had had plenty of time to wonder what Sherlock would look like under the hideously expensive pants he always wore. He was pleased to see his imagination wasn't too far off. Not as astoundingly _real_ as the real thing, of course, but not ridiculously wrong either.

_**Your turn, John. Show me how turned on I was able to make you. -SH**_

That wasn't exactly the way John would have phrased it, although he supposed it wasn't _technically_ incorrect. Okay, not incorrect at all. John slid his hand up to the tip of his cock and bit back a groan. Photo #1 acquired. Then slid his palm down to tug at his balls a bit, stretching everything out even more. Photo #2. Crop and send.

_**When I get back I'm going to lick every inch of skin showing in those photos. -SH**_

_**I'm going to work you into my mouth and suck you down, tight and warm and wet. -SH**_

_**And when you come, I'm going to keep every drop inside of me. Not wasting any of you. -SH**_

_**Going to make you scream. -SH**_

_**Mrs. Hudson won't be able to look at us for a week, and you know how open she is. -SH**_

_Fuck. -JW_

_**We can save that for the day after. -SH**_

And then it was too much. The photos, the delightful friction of his hand against his cock, the thought of Sherlock drinking him down_ (Oh god, even just that!)._ John came a good bit louder than he intended. And _fuck_, it was one of the more glorious orgasms he could place in recent memory. He closed his eyes and willed his breathing back under control. And then - before he could think better of it - he snapped a picture of his semen-covered stomach and sent it to Sherlock.

A long minute later, another message.

_**I can't words. -SH**_

And then a photo - Sherlock's nude torso, from cock to clavicle. And with definite, visible proof Sherlock had just come from sexting with him. _Fuck._ John couldn't suppress his stupidly happy smile.

_I like making you not words. -JW_

_**Shut up, John. -SH**_

_**Actually, no, don't. -SH**_

_**I expect I'll want to do that again with you sometime rather soon. In person. Good? -SH**_

John bit his lip and nodded at his phone.

_Yeah, good. It's all good, Sherlock. -JW_


End file.
